New Release! THE MADDEST KIND OF LOVE

The Maddest Kind of Love

by Christine Hillingdon

is available today.

Blurb

When Carissa and Jaye fell in love, it wasn’t their time. She was planning a wedding and he was already married. Now, twenty years later, they find each other again, but he is planning a funeral and she is married. Cyberspace becomes a confidant to Carissa and Jaye’s staggeringly honest emails about themselves. Things they’ve never shared with anybody. And despite everything, Carissa falls for Jaye all over again.

Their affair is renewed, fraught with guilt and the dangers of being caught. This time it’s so different. Cancer, menopausal sex, and getting to know each other is frustrating, exciting, and exhausting, both mentally and physically. Life is more complicated. Is this the right time?

Excerpt

TUESDAY IS COLD for an approaching autumn, but I like the cold. It keeps the hot flushes away. As I arrive home from our local Westfield Shopping Centre in a taxi with the usual pile of groceries, I am pleased to see mail stuffed into the sandstone letterbox.

I pay the driver, thank him kindly for placing my overflowing bags on the doorstep, and shove the mail into one of them.

Home! The Mediterranean styled house that Nathan and I built six years ago. I love it. It is open, easy to maintain and modern as opposed to the old worldly fussiness of the previous house we shared.

Carrying the bags inside and dumping them next to the kitchen bench, I curse as the one with the mail tumbles over onto the tiled floor. I leave it there and pack the freezer items away, switch the kettle on and check the landline phone for messages.

There are none. Good. My precious solitude isn’t threatened.

Sipping my tea I check through the mail and it is then I notice a hand-written envelope.

It’s from Jaye.

Inside is a hand-written letter thanking me for the book. My book ends with “D Day”—Diagnosis Day—and he is writing to enquire how I am. At the same time he tells me his own life has taken a change for the worse. Anne, his wife, is terminally ill. But, I knew of this through the writers’ grapevine.

I understand his pain and connect it immediately with my own.

He describes his life as a “crock of shit” and how it has been that way for about five years now. Anne is dying from an autoimmune disorder that is “killing her slowly, painfully, and cruelly.” Her vital organs have begun collapsing, enlarging, or malfunctioning. At present she is in need of constant care, and Jaye is providing this in the best way he can.

He has become Anne’s carer.

There is no email address included for me to reply. But reply I must. I want to. So I place it aside until I have the privacy and the time needed to do this. In the meantime there is the rest of the groceries to stash away, washing to collect from the line outside, and dinner to prepare.

Thank God Nathan and I decided to opt out of having children. It hadn’t been something either of us wanted. No spare time, no freedom, not to mention all that responsibility. I have a hard enough time caring for me, never mind children.

And so I write, telling Jaye how my own life is. All the wallow and self-pity is chucked in for him to read. I don’t care. I need to tell.

I also ask Jaye questions, the details that he has carefully left out of his letter. Free time for him, the support of family and friends, and how disabled Anne is at this present stage?

And Anne, I’ve never met her, but my heart goes out to her for what inevitably lies ahead and what her life has become.

It could so easily be Nathan and I in that same situation. But I tell Jaye I have different plans if that should ever be the case.

I leave those details out on purpose.

Meanwhile, I offer my shoulder and give him my email address and phone number, in case he should feel the need to use it. To whinge, rant, or simply ring up and talk—about anything.

The Dark Poems I wrote while undergoing chemotherapy that helped see me through. I tell Jaye of these as well. Extremely therapeutic. Although they make me cry on re-reading them, even now.

And emailing. I email friends everyday. They too help, and I enjoy the online company. My choice when to read, when to send or simply delete. So neat. So convenient.

My days simply fly by since retiring from my job as a part-time, freelance journalist. Not enough hours. It has always been this way. Don’t know how I found the time to work—and I certainly don’t miss it. The in-house politics did my head in week after week.

Nathan, who works within the political side of journalism, handles that sort of thing much better than I ever could or did. He rarely loses his cool at the can-print, can’t-print meetings when something hot is going down and the editor in chief is insisting this and that. Me, I would hold my ground and fight for my opinions and often end up off side for a while because of it.

I tell Jaye about the book club I belong to and the courses I have signed up for over the last few years: Zumba, yoga, and next on the list belly dance—aging body permitting.

Signing off, I tell him to give Anne a big hug from me.

Woman to woman.

And I mean it.

THE NEXT day I post it while picking up groceries at the local supermarket. These are the ones I couldn’t find on Tuesday—and the ones I forgot.

I am convinced Mr. Coles emails Mr. Woolworths every week announcing what his specials will be, and Mr. Woolworths replies, agreeing he will not stock those items for the interim. In return, Mr. Woolworths sends Mr. Coles his list of Specials, and Mr. Coles agrees to do the same.

Once home again, there is cooking to be done and placed in the freezer for Mum and Dad. They are both eighty odd and standing at the stove is often too much for Mum’s arthritic hip.

I don’t mind this—mostly. I love cooking as a rule. But it wasn’t really what I had in mind for when I retired.

The day after that I log on to check my emails.

There is one from Jaye.

---

The Maddest Kind of Love is available

from the following vendors:

  

Driven Press

Amazon US

Amazon AU

Apple

B&N

GogglePlay

Kobo

Omnilit

Extended release special 

$3.99

One week only (until August 21) - ebook only.


Author

Christine Hillingdon was born in England and migrated with her family to Adelaide, South Australia in 1963.

She has been writing since school days and received a highly commended prize for a short story in her final year of high school. Since then she has had many short stories and poems published in a variety of literary magazines on and offline. Christine has won a few competitions along the way, including Poems for Passengers. This was a joint initiative between TransAdelaide and the Department for the Arts and Cultural Development, South Australia.

In 2011 Christine self-published a book through Peacock Publications about her twenty-seven years working as a psychiatric nurse at Hillcrest Hospital, South Australia. In May 2016, her children’s book titled The Girl From Far Away was published through Gnome On Pig Productions.

Her first novel of women’s fiction, The Maddest Kind of Love, is through Driven Press.

Find Christine at:
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THE MADDEST KIND OF LOVE is available for preorder today!

Driven Press would like to announce that our upcoming release

The Maddest Kind of Love
by Christine Hillingdon

to be released on 14 August 2016, is now available for pre-order.

Blurb

When Carissa and Jaye fell in love, it wasn’t their time. She was planning a wedding and he was already married. Now, twenty years later, they find each other again, but he is planning a funeral and she is married. Cyberspace becomes a confidant to Carissa and Jaye’s staggeringly honest emails about themselves. Things they’ve never shared with anybody. And despite everything, Carissa falls for Jaye all over again.

Their affair is renewed, fraught with guilt and the dangers of being caught. This time it’s so different. Cancer, menopausal sex, and getting to know each other is frustrating, exciting, and exhausting, both mentally and physically. Life is more complicated. Is this the right time?

Excerpt

AS I QUEUE in line at the post office with half a dozen precious copies of my newly published book, I begin to reflect over the last few years ... 

So much has changed in my life. The most significant is being diagnosed with breast cancer in 2010. Add to that a marriage that has by one means or another dwindled down to the mere sharing of a house, maintaining a social life, and travelling together. The latter providing the inspiration for my published work of non-fiction.

It has been many years since intimacy has had any part to play in my life. I don’t mind this. Don’t want to encourage reconciliation with Nathan in that area at all. We sleep in separate rooms. Nothing wrong with that. So many couples do, it seems. I have violent night sweats; he snores. I am a light sleeper; Nathan sleeps through thunderstorms and nearby house alarms going off!

There is nothing bad in this marriage. More sad really; sameness and complacency. I experience nothing sexual towards Nathan these days. I love him in every sense of the word—but that.

To sum it up in one-line: There is nothing there anymore.

Add to that my self-loathing for what now lays under my clothes. My plasticized, deformed numbness.

I am almost at the post office counter. Two more people in the queue, and then I’ll be there. I check for the umpteenth time that the books are sealed properly inside their padded bags, the addresses are all correct, and that my details are on the back.

This is particularly important in the case of Jaye’s copy. Twenty odd years ago we were madly in love, having a wonderfully romantic affair. I had already begun living with Nathan at the time when Jaye first entered my life. Yet, things felt simple, straightforward, in spite of beginning an affair. Yes, I felt a bit guilty, but the two men in my life were both so easygoing and totally unconnected to each other. Life as it was at the time flowed along. My wedding plans with Nathan were not immediate. It was something we were planning a little way down the line. All very low-key stuff.

Eventually the affair with Jaye ended in an uncomplicated way. It simply died a natural death, and I moved on. No dramas, no pain, no worries.

Jaye, a fellow writer, was lucky enough to have a book published during our time together. His free copy, presented to me carefully signed, resides on my wooden bookshelf at home.

Now, I am sending him a copy of mine. A gift in return for receiving one of his all those years ago. What was between Jaye and I is long gone. I hold no regrets and no lingering impressions. My book is simply a gift to a man I once knew.

---

The Maddest Kind of Love is available for pre-order

from the following vendors:

  

Driven Press

Amazon US

Amazon AU

Apple

B&N

GogglePlay

Kobo

Omnilit

Pre-order special 

$3.99

Limited time - ebook only.


Author

Christine Hillingdon was born in England and migrated with her family to Adelaide, South Australia in 1963.
​
She has been writing since school days and received a highly commended prize for a short story in her final year of high school. Since then she has had many short stories and poems published in a variety of literary magazines on and offline. Christine has won a few competitions along the way, including Poems for Passengers. This was a joint initiative between TransAdelaide and the Department for the Arts and Cultural Development, South Australia.

In 2011 Christine self-published a book through Peacock Publications about her twenty-seven years working as a psychiatric nurse at Hillcrest Hospital, South Australia. In May 2016, her children’s book titled The Girl From Far Away was published through Gnome On Pig Productions.

Her first novel of women’s fiction, The Maddest Kind of Love, is through Driven Press.

Find Christine at:
Facebook

Release Day! A Keeper's Truth by Dee Willson

Driven Press is very happy to announce the release of literary romance A Keeper’s Truth in paperback and e-book formats world-wide today. 

A Keeper’s Truth

Every one of us has a soul.
Some are new, some old, and a few, the dangerous, are lost.
But only twelve know why we have a soul at all.
Only twelve remember mankind’s forbidden past.

Tess thinks she’s going crazy when only she sees the naked man in the crowded café, comatose woman in his arms. The nightmares, the visions: something’s not right. But Tess is entitled to moments of insanity. She’s the daughter of mental illness, suicide, and her husband was just killed in a car accident, leaving her an inept single mom at twenty-six.

Then Tess meets Bryce, Carlisle’s illusive bachelor who spins tales from ancient mythology with knowledge beyond his years. His truths intrigue Tess, pull her from the depths, and might just be what she needs to survive.

Compulsively readable, A Keeper’s Truth is an emotionally charged tale of fate, belief, and the power of the human mind. A story that will have you questioning everything you know about the history of mankind, and wondering if somewhere, deep inside, you knew the truth all along.

Excerpt

My name is Tess. I’m the daughter of a liar. And unhinged.

Tess is the name on the sticker stuck to my shirt above my right boob. I wonder why it says that, no one uses my name anymore. It should read: Oh, I’m sorry. Or the extended version: Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I’m greeted with pouty lips and sad eyes. Instant reminders . . . as if I need to be reminded my husband is dead. Meyer has been gone five months, two days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes. The last two minutes only slightly better than the first.

I’m standing in my daughter’s classroom, waiting for my turn to meet her kindergarten teacher, Ms. Bubbly. Actually, her name is Ms. Rainer, but since she wears no sticker herself, I’ve taken the liberty to provide her with an appropriate title, one with more verve. I hover in the back corner, pretending to be enthralled with drawings of horses stapled to the bulletin board. Well, I think they’re horses, or ponies, or some sort of animal with four legs; they really aren’t all that easy to decipher. I’m grateful for the distraction. I’m a shell, a remnant, a shadow of my former self.

I catch a glimpse of affection, a naturally intimate gesture between lovers. His hand on her waist, her leaning into his shoulder while whispering in his ear. I draw a mouthful of air, the word widow encasing me like a tomb, and scan the crowd again, hoping to see Thomas. He’s the only other single parent I know of. He’s not here.

It must be my turn to speak to Ms. Bubbly. She reaches out and with a strained voice says, “So sorry to learn about your loss.”

Great, just what I wanted to hear. I look at my nametag and tighten my arms into their usual position, holding my insides, inside. I realize my lack of finesse a moment too late, and Ms. Bubbly drops her hand.

“So . . . Abby . . .” I can’t think of anything more to say. My mind is mush.

Ms. Bubbly briefs me on her first weeks with my daughter, nothing I don’t already know. Abby is quiet. Abby’s working on her printing skills, her b’s and d’s are backwards. Abby likes to play with Thomas’s daughter, Sofia, her best friend from junior kindergarten. Ms. Bubbly ends with, “Abby seems to be coping,” and I stare at my shoes, the word coping caught in my throat. “Yes, under the circumstances, Abby is doing well,” Mrs. Bubbly says, her animation dwindling.

I realize she’s striving for sincerity, but I can’t help but wonder which circumstance she’s referring to: Abby being fatherless or my inability to raise her alone.

“Good,” I say, because it’s Tuesday, opposite day according to the blackboard.

Ms. Bubbly’s attention wanders, and I consider revoking her title as I mumble goodbye, head for the door, and tear the name tag from my shirt. Head down, I smack my forehead into something solid, then recoil, instinct requiring an assessment of the battle wound.

It hurts already. Life just won’t toss me a break.

“My apologies, Tess,” says an unfamiliar voice. A rich, masculine voice.

My eyes follow the six feet four inches of triple-threat black—boots, jeans, leather jacket—to land on two-day stubble and a large hand rubbing the contours of a chiseled chin. Apparently life can get worse. I’ve collided with Adonis, the kind that stops your heart from beating just long enough to make you forget all the ones who came before, offering nothing but hollow promises and seasoned moves. Been there, done that, burned the shirt.

It dawns on me he said my name, no condolences.

“Do I know you?” I ask, my gaze rising from his chin to his eyes.

Wow. His gray eyes and dark lashes are . . . mesmerizing.

“I doubt we’ve met. Tess, it’s the name on your sticker,” he says, pointing to the name tag now on the floor. His hair, dark and cropped, is windblown and off kilter.

I grab the closest chair, attempting to overcome the strangest sensation, like I’m a feather, floating.

“You all right?” His European accent has an almost liquid quality, at odds with his rugged appearance. “Allow me.”

Relocating his motorcycle helmet from one hip to the other and balancing it under his forearm, he bends to collect my sticker from the floor. Something shimmers, my vision suddenly malfunctioning, and for a split second he’s draped in a luxurious white fur, a blanket of sorts, reaching for a bright colored scarf at his feet, big and bare. His movements are gentle and deliberate, but fast, as if I am watching in fast-forward. With the conclusion of one blink he’s back to normal, leather clad arm outstretched toward me.

I stand stock-still, holding the chair for support, trying to bring my eyes into focus.

“You okay?” He thrusts the sticker at me a second time, I think.

I survey body parts, grateful gravity has kept me intact.

“I’ve been better.” I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to recall what I’d seen, but it’s gone, as if wiped from memory, leaving just a weird sense of déjà vu. Man, I’ve fallen apart since Meyer’s been gone.

“You have,” he says, and my eyes pop open to stare. He’s smiling, amused. “Too much caffeine maybe.”

Have I met this guy before? He doesn’t look like anyone I know, but there is something about him, something familiar. It’s not a good feeling.

“Right, caffeine,” I say, lying. I gave up caffeine when I was pregnant with Abby and never looked back.

He grins like a hyena. “Your eyes playing tricks?”

My mother, in one of her moods, would’ve wiped that smirk away with a kiss. And he’d have let her, stranger or not. She was intoxicating. But I’m not my mother, and my brief lapse in sanity doesn’t require justification. I’m a twenty-six-year-old widow with no idea how to pull it together, so I ignore his question and settle for diversion.

“Are you a teacher here?”

“Not here,” he says. “I promised my niece I’d stop by to meet hers.” He takes my hand. “Bryce, Bryce Waters,” he says, planting a soft kiss on the back of my fingers.

Stunned, I search his face for the slightest hint of perversion, a reason to club him, but I see nothing but a gentleman in wolf’s clothing. Still, I pull my hand away.

“I’m not the teacher.”

He tilts his head. “You’re Tess.” My name drips from his lips like melted butter and warning bells sound in my head, loud and clear. “You’ll need ice for that bruise.” He points to my head. “Take care of yourself.”

A gritty moan vibrates my teeth when I touch my forehead and discover a bump the size of Mount St. Helens. It throbs, making me take note of the headache creeping in. Somewhere under the surface I’m mortified I plowed into this guy without an apology or concern for his chin. I can’t bring myself to grasp the emotion, so I draw a deep breath and say, “Always do,” as I shuffle past and without another word, walk straight out the door.

Buy Links

Paperback

Amazon US: http://ow.ly/10anu1
Amazon CA: http://ow.ly/10anzW
B&N: http://ow.ly/10ankN
Waterstones: http://ow.ly/10apeK
Indiebound: http://ow.ly/10apnP
Fishpond: http://ow.ly/10apFG

eBook

Driven Press: http://ow.ly/XCGff
Amazon US: http://ow.ly/WNB5f
Amazon CA: http://ow.ly/WNBG8
Amazon UK: http://ow.ly/WNC9m
iTunes (iBooks): http://ow.ly/WTAE0
B&N (Nook): http://ow.ly/WTBju
Kobo: http://ow.ly/WTARu
GooglePlay: http://ow.ly/XCGbu
Indigo: http://ow.ly/WTC8Y


About Dee Willson

Dee Willson felt the writer’s call at fifteen, when she penned her first novel and received her first rejection to go with it. Over twenty years later, Dee Willson has published short stories, interviews, contributed to blogs, and wrote the novel A Keeper’s Truth, followed by GOT (Gift of Travel). She currently resides in Burlington, Ontario, with her husband and their two daughters. Visit her online at www.deewillson.com and on Twitter @denisewillson

www.drivenpress.net

info@drivenpress.net

A Keeper's Truth by Dee Willson

Driven Press is very excited to announce the hardcover release of 
A Keeper's Truth
by Dee Willson on March 1, 2016.

 Book Details: Hardcover Novel

Genre: Literary Romance

Blurb

Every one of us has a soul.

Some are new, some old, and a few, the dangerous, are lost.

But only twelve know why we have a soul at all.

Only twelve remember mankind’s forbidden past.

Tess thinks she’s going crazy when only she sees the naked man in the crowded café, comatose woman in his arms. The nightmares, the visions: something’s not right. But Tess is entitled to moments of insanity. She’s the daughter of mental illness, suicide, and her husband was just killed in a car accident, leaving her an inept single mom at twenty-six.

Then Tess meets Bryce, Carlisle’s illusive bachelor who spins tales from ancient mythology with knowledge beyond his years. His truths intrigue Tess, pull her from the depths, and might just be what she needs to survive.

Compulsively readable, A Keeper’s Truth is an emotionally charged tale of fate, belief, and the power of the human mind. A story that will have you questioning everything you know about the history of mankind, and wondering if somewhere, deep inside, you knew the truth all along.

Praise for A Keeper's Truth . . .

“With a generous wit that readers should savor, Willson presents Tess as a damaged woman desperate to heal. . . as Willson unfurls more of her world, her series’ immense potential proves irresistible.” —Kirkus Reviews

“Dee Willson is a born storyteller . . . her worlds are freshly invented, meticulously considered and richly told." —Katherine Luttinger, Agent, Darhansoff & Verrill, New York

Tess is a highly credible and original lead character . . . that combined with a surprising portrait of ancient lore, the novel really comes alive.” —D. J. McIntosh, Author of The Witch of Babylon

"Dee Willson’s characters cast shadows sharp enough to make even the most jaded reader uneasy. She juxtaposes comfort with peril and the beautiful with the grotesque until the simplest gestures are disquieting and the only way out is forward." —Rob Brunet, Author of Stinking Rich

"I love finding books that don't go the obvious path... books that keep you guessing." —Jennifer Foxcroft, Author of Sanguine Mountain

Excerpt

My name is Tess. I'm the daughter of a liar. And unhinged.
Tess is the name on the sticker stuck to my shirt above my right boob. I wonder why it says that, no one uses my name anymore. It should read: Oh, I’m sorry. Or the extended version: Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I’m greeted with pouty lips and sad eyes. Instant reminders . . . as if I need to be reminded my husband is dead. Meyer has been gone five months, two days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes. The last two minutes only slightly better than the first.

I’m standing in my daughter’s classroom, waiting for my turn to meet her kindergarten teacher, Ms. Bubbly. Actually, her name is Ms. Rainer, but since she wears no sticker herself, I’ve taken the liberty to provide her with an appropriate title, one with more verve. I hover in the back corner, pretending to be enthralled with drawings of horses stapled to the bulletin board. Well, I think they’re horses, or ponies, or some sort of animal with four legs; they really aren’t all that easy to decipher. I’m grateful for the distraction. I’m a shell, a remnant, a shadow of my former self.

I catch a glimpse of affection, a naturally intimate gesture between lovers. His hand on her waist, her leaning into his shoulder while whispering in his ear. I draw a mouthful of air, the word widow encasing me like a tomb, and scan the crowd again, hoping to see Thomas. He’s the only other single parent I know of. He’s not here.

It must be my turn to speak to Ms. Bubbly. She reaches out and with a strained voice says, “So sorry to learn about your loss.”

Great, just what I wanted to hear. I look at my nametag and tighten my arms into their usual position, holding my insides, inside. I realize my lack of finesse a moment too late, and Ms. Bubbly drops her hand.

“So . . . Abby . . .” I can’t think of anything more to say. My mind is mush.

Ms. Bubbly briefs me on her first weeks with my daughter, nothing I don’t already know. Abby is quiet. Abby’s working on her printing skills, her b’s and d’s are backwards. Abby likes to play with Thomas’s daughter, Sofia, her best friend from junior kindergarten. Ms. Bubbly ends with, “Abby seems to be coping,” and I stare at my shoes, the word coping caught in my throat. “Yes, under the circumstances, Abby is doing well,” Mrs. Bubbly says, her animation dwindling.

I realize she’s striving for sincerity, but I can’t help but wonder which circumstance she’s referring to: Abby being fatherless or my inability to raise her alone.

“Good,” I say, because it’s Tuesday, opposite day according to the blackboard.

Ms. Bubbly’s attention wanders, and I consider revoking her title as I mumble goodbye, head for the door, and tear the name tag from my shirt. Head down, I smack my forehead into something solid, then recoil, instinct requiring an assessment of the battle wound.

It hurts already. Life just won’t toss me a break.

“My apologies, Tess,” says an unfamiliar voice. A rich, masculine voice.

My eyes follow the six feet four inches of triple-threat black—boots, jeans, leather jacket—to land on two-day stubble and a large hand rubbing the contours of a chiseled chin. Apparently life can get worse. I’ve collided with Adonis, the kind that stops your heart from beating just long enough to make you forget all the ones who came before, offering nothing but hollow promises and seasoned moves. Been there, done that, burned the shirt.

It dawns on me he said my name, no condolences.

“Do I know you?” I ask, my gaze rising from his chin to his eyes.

Wow. His gray eyes and dark lashes are . . . mesmerizing.

“I doubt we’ve met. Tess, it’s the name on your sticker,” he says, pointing to the name tag now on the floor. His hair, dark and cropped, is windblown and off kilter.

I grab the closest chair, attempting to overcome the strangest sensation, like I’m a feather, floating.

“You all right?” His European accent has an almost liquid quality, at odds with his rugged appearance. “Allow me.”

Relocating his motorcycle helmet from one hip to the other and balancing it under his forearm, he bends to collect my sticker from the floor. Something shimmers, my vision suddenly malfunctioning, and for a split second he’s draped in a luxurious white fur, a blanket of sorts, reaching for a bright colored scarf at his feet, big and bare. His movements are gentle and deliberate, but fast, as if I am watching in fast-forward. With the conclusion of one blink he’s back to normal, leather clad arm outstretched toward me.

I stand stock-still, holding the chair for support, trying to bring my eyes into focus.

“You okay?” He thrusts the sticker at me a second time, I think.

I survey body parts, grateful gravity has kept me intact.

“I’ve been better.” I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to recall what I’d seen, but it’s gone, as if wiped from memory, leaving just a weird sense of déjà vu. Man, I’ve fallen apart since Meyer’s been gone.

“You have,” he says, and my eyes pop open to stare. He’s smiling, amused. “Too much caffeine maybe.”

Have I met this guy before? He doesn’t look like anyone I know, but there is something about him, something familiar. It’s not a good feeling.

“Right, caffeine,” I say, lying. I gave up caffeine when I was pregnant with Abby and never looked back.

He grins like a hyena. “Your eyes playing tricks?”

My mother, in one of her moods, would’ve wiped that smirk away with a kiss. And he’d have let her, stranger or not. She was intoxicating. But I’m not my mother, and my brief lapse in sanity doesn’t require justification. I’m a twenty-six-year-old widow with no idea how to pull it together, so I ignore his question and settle for diversion.

“Are you a teacher here?”

“Not here,” he says. “I promised my niece I’d stop by to meet hers.” He takes my hand. “Bryce, Bryce Waters,” he says, planting a soft kiss on the back of my fingers.

Stunned, I search his face for the slightest hint of perversion, a reason to club him, but I see nothing but a gentleman in wolf’s clothing. Still, I pull my hand away.

“I’m not the teacher.”

He tilts his head. “You’re Tess.” My name drips from his lips like melted butter and warning bells sound in my head, loud and clear. “You’ll need ice for that bruise.” He points to my head. “Take care of yourself.”

A gritty moan vibrates my teeth when I touch my forehead and discover a bump the size of Mount St. Helens. It throbs, making me take note of the headache creeping in. Somewhere under the surface I’m mortified I plowed into this guy without an apology or concern for his chin. I can’t bring myself to grasp the emotion, so I draw a deep breath and say, “Always do,” as I shuffle past and without another word, walk straight out the door.

Buy Links

Driven Press

Amazon US

Barnes & Noble

Waterstones

Indiebound

Fishpond


The paperback and e-book are releasing on April 1, 2016 and are currently available to pre-order at all the major online sellers:

Driven Press: http://ow.ly/XCGff
Amazon US: http://ow.ly/WNB5f
Amazon CA: http://ow.ly/WNBG8
Amazon UK: http://ow.ly/WNC9m
iTunes: http://ow.ly/WTAE0
B&N: http://ow.ly/WTBju
Kobo: http://ow.ly/WTARu
GooglePlay: http://ow.ly/XCGbu
Indigo: http://ow.ly/WTC8Y

For more information:

www.drivenpress.net

info@drivenpress.net

Goodreads


About the Author

Dee Willson

Dee Willson felt the writer’s call at fifteen, when she penned her first novel and received her first rejection letter to go with it. Over twenty years later, with two successful businesses under her belt (both with Canada’s largest book retailer, Indigo Books), Dee Willson rekindled her passion for novels. She joined a hard-core book club, published short stories and interviews, contributed to blogs, and wrote the novel A Keeper’s Truth, followed by GOT (Gift of Travel). Dee is presently working on the second instalment in the Keeper’s series, and Meant 2 B, a crazy ghost story riddled with fate.

Dee and her husband currently reside in Burlington, Ontario. They are building their dream home on the shore of Lake Ontario, where they expect to watch their daughters frolic in the lake, and possibly grow four heads.

Visit her online at www.deewillson.com or on Twitter @denisewillson